


Three Little Words

by Aethelflaed



Series: Sawdust of Words [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Attempted Love Confession, Backstory, Canon Compliant, During Canon, Hurt, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sad Ending, Whump, but it will get better, failed love confession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 12:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: London, 1849Crowley has something he rather desperately wants to tell Aziraphale.But there are some things a demon can't say, no matter how much he wants to.





	Three Little Words

**Author's Note:**

> This one is neither particularly dark, nor graphic, but prepare yourself for a sharp turn halfway through.
> 
> It is something of a companion to "Finding the Words" (earlier in this series) and I suggest you read that one before (for full context) or after (it will make you feel better).

London - 1849

Today was the day.

Crowley had been mentally preparing for weeks. Practicing. Imagining the scene. Now it was here, and the anticipation bubbled within him. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his mouth from curling into a smile every time he thought of it.

Clear skies, as blue as Aziraphale’s eyes, promising a beautiful evening and a star-filled night. Tomorrow they would be at the Weimar Court Theater, seeing Wagner’s new opera; but first, a sunset ferry ride across the Channel and a long train ride in a private car across the German countryside. A chance to be alone, to talk. To start something new.

“I love opera,” he announced loudly, giddily to the street.

Simple. Direct. Three little words.

The furious grin rose to his face again as he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the humans who stared as if he’d gone mad.

Why had it taken him so long to think of this? It was so _ obvious _.

Oh, it wasn’t _ traditional_, by his understanding of things. _ Tradition _ called for an endless dance of coy words and sly hints, culminating in a wordy speech of some kind, probably full of poetry and floral imagery and whatever decorated romantic nonsense was popular today. Admittedly, the direct approach wasn’t really his style, but the other road was forever closed to him.

He’d tried, of course. Not the poetry – except once in sheer desperation – but small confessions, fragments of the enormous weight of emotion that filled his damaged heart. A thousand attempts to let Aziraphale know there was more than just the Arrangement between them. It always failed.

He couldn’t hold the words in his mind. They shifted, scattered, crumbled to pieces, leaving him spitting out a distasteful sawdust of words, far from his original intention.

Not today.

Crowley barged into a shop, ignoring the clerk in favor of the rows of gleaming glass bottles. Normally he wasn’t very picky about his alcohol – he had his favorites, but anything would do in a pinch.

Today called for something special, though. He scanned the wine rack until he found something expensive and red out of Bordeaux with _ Chateau _ in the name. The angel thought he didn’t pay attention to those endless discourses on the latest hard-to-pronounce delicacies. This would show him.

“I love wine,” he all but laughed as he paid the shopkeeper.

Simple. Direct. Three little words.

He couldn’t believe he had spent so long – centuries – mapping out a way through the shifting morass of words. Trying to define the rules of what his punishment would and wouldn’t allow him to say. Searching for some vague, convoluted way of expressing what could be said in just three words.

Stepping back out into the warm spring air, bottle of wine tucked into the crook of his elbow, Crowley was almost tempted to whistle.

Almost. He did have a reputation to preserve.

It was all so simple. So perfect.

Tonight, on the ferry, with the red sunset to fill in for all the things he could never say, he’d take Aziraphale’s hands, look him in the eyes, and whisper the three words the angel longed to hear. And repeat them, as many times as it took for him to believe them.

There would be questions afterwards, probably an argument if the past was anything to go by, and he’d have to navigate that morass then. But once the words were said, _ they couldn’t be unsaid_. Everything beyond that was just details.

At first, he’d stumbled over the middle word; it felt wrong in his mouth, always had. But he’d repeated it to himself, again and again, not thinking about the intended subject, just practicing until it tumbled out of his mouth as easily as his own name.

Now for the real test. Up ahead, a woman selling flowers at the side of the road – older, plain faced, tired from the long day hawking her wares.

Crowley sauntered up to her, with his best smile and charming manner that he saved for his most delicate Temptations. Hands on the side of her cart, he leaned close until there could be no doubt in her mind that his eyes were only for her.

“I love you,” he whispered, softly, meaningfully.

Simple. Direct. Three little words.

She blushed and stammered; he suddenly imagined Aziraphale doing the same, and it almost made him laugh out loud.

He swaggered away before what was left of his cool exterior broke, a single red rose tucked in his hand. He’d been spreading far too much good cheer as he walked, so a bit of petty theft should help balance the scales.

Three words. No room for his meaning to twist away and escape, no space for misunderstanding, nothing to stammer over or forget.

I. Love. You.

He paused to consider. He should really have brought something sweet. He _ had _gone all the way up to Doncaster for a small tin of butterscotch, but unfortunately Aziraphale had found it when Crowley carelessly let it fall out of his coat pocket. He’d had no choice but to hand it over or else spoil everything. The wine would make a good replacement, and with luck he could get a box of chocolates in Germany.

The flower, however, was overkill.

Glancing around, he spotted three young ladies, walking up the street arm-in-arm, so close their flounced skirts brushed together, threatening to trip each other up. They whispered behind gloved hands, shooting looks at the young men (and occasionally the young women) who passed them on the street, giggling breathlessly.

Crowley smiled and tossed the rose at their feet, tipping his hat and bowing deeply. “For the fairest,” he said, walking on.

An old one, but a good one. Before he even reached the next street corner, he could hear the voices raised in argument. That would _ really _ help balance the scales; and there was always some comfort in the fact that, no matter what, humans would still be humans.

He could see the bookshop ahead.

Every other thought fled Crowley’s mind. His heart jangled in his chest, losing its rhythm as his nervousness grew. It was almost time. Just a short train ride to the ferry at Dover, trying not to fall to pieces under that gentle blue gaze. How would he survive it? Should he say something on the train? It wouldn’t be as private, but at least it would be over, for better or worse.

Worse?

He stopped in his tracks.

What was he _ doing_? He was being ridiculous, that’s what. He’d given the occasional nudge before, but this was something far more.

It wasn’t right – it wasn’t fair – it was _ selfish _ to push these feelings on Aziraphale when he wasn’t ready. When he didn’t really know how he felt or what he wanted. Yes, as a demon, Crowley didn’t care about “right” or “fair” and he was all about selfishness – but not with Aziraphale. He’d sworn to himself he would wait as long as it took, and he’d been waiting for centuries.

Things had been going well since the shop opened, better than he had ever hoped. Seeing each other almost every week. Dinner at all the finest restaurants in London. Concerts in the city, and even on the Continent, as often as he could arrange it. Aziraphale learning to meet his gaze without flinching away.

Was it wrong to want more?

If he could just say the words, would Aziraphale finally understand that he wasn’t alone, had never really been alone?

If he pushed too hard, would that drive the angel away forever?

Up ahead, the shop door opened, and several customers were politely but firmly thrown out by a figure in white suit and hat. He locked the shop doors, then turned to scan the street.

When he saw Crowley approaching, his face lit up with a smile – the kind of smile that starts with the eyes and spreads to every part of the body.

It was annoying. It was _ embarrassing _ . Crowley wished Aziraphale would look at him like that _ all the time_.

Forget the plan. It had to be now, before he lost his nerve again.

Simple. Direct. Three little words.

He took a breath.

A terrible burning pain ripped through his body, exploding from his chest and spreading down every artery, his own blood boiling him alive from the inside out. Before he could even cry out, it filled his throat, a horrible, acrid chemical burn. Every muscle seized up.

Crowley didn’t remember falling, but when his eyes blinked open, he was lying on the sidewalk in a pool of wine and broken glass. Aziraphale knelt beside him, worry etched into every line of his face. “Crowley? Crowley! Are you alright? You had some sort of attack. I – I don’t know what to do. Crowley, please, _ are you alright?” _

“Wha’ did I…?” That was as much as he could manage. His throat felt raw, as if he’d drunk something corrosive. He felt light-headed, and not in a good way.

“You just collapsed, my dear fellow. I didn’t see anything to cause it or – or anything.” He gulped. “Let’s get you inside. Come along, no arguing.”

Crowley wouldn’t dream of it. Every nerve in his body throbbed; he might have been shaking, but he couldn’t feel anything beyond the pain. He was fairly certain Aziraphale helped him to stand, walked him inside, but it was all a blur.

When his mind finally cleared, he was inside the bookshop, sitting in Aziraphale’s favorite armchair, a glass of brandy pressed into his hand. The angel paced nearby, glancing at Crowley as if he might explode.

The inside of the shop had always felt warm and safe, but just at this moment Crowley felt exposed.

“Wurz m’ glazez?”

Aziraphale pulled them out of a pocket. “They were cracked when you fell, but I don’t think any of the glass is missing. I can try to fix them if you like.”

Crowley shook his head, coughing. Why did his throat hurt so much? What could have caused that pain?

“I still don’t know what happened.” Aziraphale looked so flustered. He started to pace again, noticed he was still holding the glasses, and hurried back over. “You were walking across the street, everything seemed fine. Then I think you were about to say my name and you just…dropped.”

No.

Crowley snatched the glasses and shoved them over his eyes, trying to hide his expression. The cracked glass slightly doubled Aziraphale’s face, so he saw four concerned eyes instead of just two.

It couldn’t be the words. It _ couldn’t be_.

He’d try again. Right now. He had to know.

Three little words.

This time he managed a strangled gasp before the pain tore through him, body shaking like he was riding a horse, shaking itself to pieces. Crowley clutched at the arms of the chair with fingers he couldn’t feel, struggling to breathe as his brain turned inside out, as his heart rattled in his chest like a loose gear, like an animal caught in a snare, trying to escape before it was ripped away forever – 

He knew this pain. His first moments in Hell, drowning in boiling sulfur, unable to even think of swimming, to think of anything through the pain in his mind and soul from what they had ripped out…

This was just a piece of it, but there was no other feeling like Falling.

He returned to the present to find Aziraphale kneeling beside him, hands hovering over Crowley’s head. “I can’t find anything to _ heal!” _ The desperation cracked his voice.

Crowley clutched at his heart, certain he’d be able to feel the hole Heaven had torn into it. He knew they’d taken his words but not like this. _ It wasn’t supposed to be like this! _

“Is it your chest?” Aziraphale brushed his hand away and probed frantically. “No, no. It’s fine. Your body’s _ fine_.” His voice made it sound like the worst possible outcome. “I don’t know what’s causing this.”

Three words. _ I love wine_.

“Rly lyk wine.” His voice was thick and hoarse, and of course the words had shifted, but that was just the usual horseshit.

“Crowley, don’t try to speak.” Aziraphale was running his hands through his white hair, twisting the curls into a mess of tiny points. “I’ll figure this out, I will.”

Keep trying. _ Really like you_.

His back arched and he slid deeper into the liquid pain. For a moment, everything else ceased to exist.

He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten onto the floor, but he was kneeling, arms pressed into the carpet like he was bowing. Aziraphale knelt beside him, biting his own hand in fear.

Three words. _ You’re my friend_.

“Yr ma frend.”

Aziraphale held out a hand, helplessly. “Crowley, you’re delirious.”

Three words. _ My best friend. _

“Ah!” His body constricted, as if he could crawl back through the cracks in his soul and find what was taken.

It hurt so much. _ He wouldn’t give in_.

“It’s some kind of seizure.” Aziraphale’s voice broke. “I’ve – I’ve never seen something like this happen to an angel before.”

“No’ a nangel,” Crowley reminded him, struggling to get out of the fetal position. He had to try again, brace himself, fight it somehow.

“Is – is this something demonic?” Again, Aziraphale’s hand hovered over Crowley’s face. “Only this has never happened before, not in six thousand years. Something would have to be different – ” His hand shot to his mouth. “It’s Hell. They’ve found out about…about you and…and they’re punishing…”

Despite the pain, Crowley managed something like a laugh. “Iz no’ Hll,” he managed. Hell would probably just tear him limb from limb and feed him to the Hellhounds. Hell would never be this creative.

“But if it isn’t Hell…” Slowly, Aziraphale raised his eyes to look at the ceiling. As if he were on a string, his whole body straightened and he took a step back.

Crowley hurt too much to focus. What was Aziraphale even trying to do, standing there with his eyes closed and his hands folded, lips moving rapidly in a voice he couldn’t hear –

_ Praying. _

Lurching across the floor, Crowley grabbed his ankle. “Don’t be an idiot – you’ll get us both killed!”

“If Heaven already knows about you – ”

“Of course Heaven doesn’t know, not unless you tell them!” Crowley managed to push himself to his knees, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Look, the worst is over, just give me a minute.”

The pain had receded all at once. He could talk again – now that he wasn’t trying to say something that was forbidden to him.

“My. Dear. Fellow.” Aziraphale was the only one who could make _ those _ three words both a term of endearment and a scornful chastisement. “What _ was _ that?”

With difficulty – the pain was gone but every bit of him still shook – Crowley levered himself up into the armchair. He’d dropped the brandy during one of his fits. Still, with a flick of his fingers, glass and alcohol were back in his hand. He needed it; the burn was like ice compared to what he’d been feeling.

“Like you said, something demonic. I tried to do something I shouldn’t and it…backfired.”

“Something you shouldn’t?” Aziraphale turned away for a moment, probably to try and soothe his features, pallid and tense from worry. When he turned back, the only thing on his face was fury. “What, exactly, were you trying to do?”

“Does it matter?” Crowley demanded in misery. For once it was he who couldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes, couldn’t even look directly at him. “It was…something you’d really disapprove of.”

“And in _ my shop, _ no less!” No one could do righteous indignation quite like an angel. “You just come swaggering up and decide to do something…foolhardy…give yourself fits, endanger both of us _ and my books _ – and you made us _ late for the opera! _” He planted his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned over, face inches from Crowley’s, scowling furiously. “I hope it was worth it.”

“You know, I don’t think it was.” He pushed to his feet and managed three steps before he almost collapsed.

“And where do you think you’re going? You’re not in any fit state to be walking.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be late for your blessed German singing. If we leave now, we can still make the ferry.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you like that. You look as if you were dragged through the streets by that ridiculous haircut.”

“Well, maybe you should go with someone who won’t completely embarrass you!”

“That would certainly be a change.”

“Don’t let me stop you, Angel. I can think of much better ways to spend my evening.”

Sawdust. He couldn’t even blame it on Heaven; it was his own anger doing the work.

Crowley made his way to the door in a series of lurches and stumbles, grabbing at shelves and chairs for support.

Just as he was about to step out, he heard a loud “AHEM” behind him. He turned to find Aziraphale holding a white hat and walking stick. “I couldn’t find yours in the…confusion outside.”

Crowley sniffed angrily. “Does that _ look _like my style?”

“Maybe this way you’ll remember to return them.” The anger had softened out of his voice, leaving only the cold edge he used to try and mask his feelings. All Crowley had to do was meet his eyes.

The demon turned away again.

“_ At least _ take the stick,” Aziaphale snapped, “or you’ll fall and break your leg. And don’t think I’ll come out there and heal you.”

“Fine.” He snatched the walking stick and hobbled off as fast as he could.

\--

On the bench in the graveyard sat a dark figure, a white stick balanced across his knees, muttering to himself. He’d been going for hours. He didn’t know how many.

“One more time,” he said. He’d lost count of how many times he’d said that, too.

_ I love opera. _

“I love opera.” Nothing.

_ I love wine. _

“I love wine.” Nothing.

_ I love Aziraphale. _

The convulsion ripped through him, as painful as the first, but in a way he no longer felt it. He was beyond numb. Beyond caring.

When it ended, he sat there panting until his breathing was even and his heart found some semblance of rhythm. “One more time.”

“I love opera.”

“I love wine.”

This time his arms jerked abruptly. When he could finally open his eyes, he found he was holding half a splintered walking stick in each hand.

Crowley leapt to his feet, screaming at the sky.

“Why? Why would you do this? Why would you take away the _ one good thing in my life? _ I know I’m being punished, but _ I don’t deserve this!” _ He flung the pieces of wood as far into the darkness as he could. _ “He doesn’t deserve this!” _

He turned and rested his hands on the back of the bench, slumping in defeat. “How could you know? How could you know back then that things would turn out like this? Because it’s too perfect to just be bad luck. Is it part of the Great Plan? An angel and a demon, bound together but never quite connecting, because one’s too deep in denial and the other can’t say _ three stupid little words!” _

He spun again, pacing, pointing his finger at the sky as if to threaten it. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t need words. It’s just noise – pointless noise. I know how I feel. That was good enough for _ six thousand years! _ We. Will. Be. Fine!”

Crowley collapsed onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. When he spoke again, it was a much softer voice. “Words will be the end of us. Sawdust of words. He’ll tell a lie too big to ignore, or I’ll say something he can’t forgive. And if I can’t set the record straight, we’ll have no choice but to walk away.”

He folded his hands around the glasses and raised his naked eyes to the sky. “Please don’t do that. Please don’t take him away from me.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always thank you for reading! And thanks to my beta, kindathewholepoint.
> 
> This one was a little confusing to tag, so if you feel the tags selected are inappropriate, or that some are missing, please let me know. Comments are always appreciated :) and if this one has left you feeling sad, I suggest you check out or re-read "Finding the Words," where these two poor babies finally manage to connect.
> 
> The next story will be posted in a week, on the 18th or 19th. Hope to see you then!


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